The Life and Times of Lord Voldemort
by Child of the Muse
Summary: Voldemort is dedicated to his cause…and very sick.


In the sixty-nine years he had been alive he had faced numerous situations which required of him the utmost delicacy. When he had killed the girl at Hogwarts, he had to use every ounce of cunning and manipulation he possessed to cheat his way out of a one way trip ticket to azkaban…not that it would have kept him out. He could have broken out whenever he wished, even then.

After all, the dementors naturally bowed to him.

When the Malfoy heir had been born it was required that he be there to witness the birth of his followers pureblood child. Holding it in his arms had been highly uncomfortable and felt unnatural, however, he had handled the situation with poise, delicacy, and grace as was expected for a political figure of his stature.

When Bellatrix had kissed him fully on the lips in front of all of his followers, supporters, and death eaters, he'd had to handle the situation as best he could and take advantage of the fact that everyone now knew exactly what Bellatrix thought of him.

This was another one of those situations. When he'd woken up, his body was weak, he was sweating, his throat hurt, and his stomach was turning. Unfortunately, he could not put his work on hold. The death eaters, incompetent fools that they were, would destroy everything. He scowled at the floor, his bad mood exacerbated by his illness, and walked down the stairs. He could smell the food from the top step. And while this was usually a highly pleasant aroma it did nothing but make him ill today. He was suddenly rethinking his extra sensory perceptions. Perhaps he should have modified his resurrection formula just by that little bit more blood so-

Only he never finished his thought because at that moment, his weak knees decided to give out and he tumbled down the stairs, the room spinning around him.

A chorus of _'My lord!'_s reached his sensitive ears, worsening the headache he could already feel.

Damn his luck! When he reached the bottom there was a severe pain in his ankle and it stuck out at an awkward angle. But before he could heal it, Narcissa Malfoy waved her wand and his ankle righted itself perfectly. "It will still be sensitive for awhile my lord."

"Yes, I am aware. Your generosity is…appreciated."

While he didn't blush, he felt completely humiliated. It didn't help that one of his death eaters tried to help him up and he scowled at the offender. He was _not_ weak!

Only now his death eaters _knew_ that he was sick, thanks to his croaking voice and the fact that his body temperature made him feel as though he were on fire. Did he say he was completely humiliated? Perhaps mortified would be a better adjective.

"My…my lord, you are running a fever!"

He waved his hand dismissively. "I'm fine. Our operations wait for nothing. Tell me of the dragon reserves. Have the basilisk-horntail products hatched?"

"Yes my lord. They are strong and healthy."

"Terminate those which are displeasing."

"Yes my lord." The death eater bowed and he nodded his head, dismissing him, only to become highly embarrassed yet _again_ when the death eater followed him into the dining hall. He sat down at the head of the table and opened his paper, as he usually did, and began reading the public and ministerial situation, trying his best to control his highly sensitive stomach. But there was nothing for it.

He left the room gracefully as he could, opened the nearest loo door, and upheaved the contents of his stomach into the john. He'd forgotten the silencing charm in his hurry to be rid of the nausea. The death eaters had heard everything.

He used a freshening charm on his mouth and went back to the table, looking over blueprints and battle plans from his death eaters, and decreeing final decisions over each.

Bellatrix had the gall to speak, though, he supposed, in light of her words, her revelation of his illness could be forgiven. After all, he never discouraged praise of his person and his death eaters knew already of his illness. "You are incredible my lord. I have never known anyone so dedicated to their cause as to work when they are so sick."

He said nothing but he could tell by looking around the table that many of his death eaters were impressed with his dedication, though perhaps they would not show it as openly as she.

"My lord, I do not mean to impose upon you, but I would like to offer you anti-fever and anti-nausea potions, if such a thing can be forgiven of me for asking."

"Retrieve them."

His followers knew better than to surprise him. And she offered the potions to him which he took immediately. However, his fever did not reduce and the nausea did not subside. The potions did nothing, which he knew was impossible.

"You may take your seat, Narcissa."

He tried to control the horrible gnawing feeling in his stomach and ignore the stares the women and a few men around the table were giving him…like he was a tasty morsel on their plate.

For the love of _Merlin_ he was _sick!_

He went to go upheave the contents of his stomach once more and returned to pouring over ancient potions texts. He would have to resume this in his study at the appropriate time. The calculations were simply fascinating to be-

"P-perhaps my lord, you are not sick, but in heat."

His shame was complete. He should never have used snakes in his resurrection ritual. He stood up to crucio wormtail…only his vision blackened the moment he stood on both feet.

A chorus of embarrassing _'My lord'_s followed him down as he slumped over on the floor, unconscious.


End file.
